Original Poetry
Old and New

Kasey P. Lindsay


EPIC POEMS:
No Shoes Lady
(Autobiographical)

Jazz Bum

Letter to the Metal Institution
(Autobiographical)


(according to my Honors English textbook)
"doubt is like a buzzing fly":
lazy black fly
his beady eyes
zip
scan this room
as he buzzes through the air
and he thuds against
the window
(he never saw it
only the outside
like reassurance)
he rests on the sill
hardly knowing up from down
or where to go
from here


Why I like acting (by Kasey P. Lindsay):
first thing you must know is that
I am a "misanthrope"
(def:  one who hates the
company of others)
but I'm more of a "recluse"
I just must have my
space
I've got to be alone
to live a pathetic life
(of art and books and dreams)
so I desert my friends
(tell them I can't talk "right now")
(but I still love them
and couldn't live without them)
sometimes I just need to
hide
and so I think
that's why I like acting
((even though I'm a hermit,
whem I'm around others)
I need to be 
the center of attention
my idea of drama
is becoming someone completely
different
from who (you think) you are
putting on masks
hiding your own persona
deep inside yourself
hide from the world
(and be a hermit)
and fool them all into thinking
you are the
character
so through acting
I can escape from society
and all the while
be the spokesperson for society
I love putting on the masks
and seeing how many different
people
I can be...
and another reason 
why I like acting
is because I love to
mainpulate you
make you feel emotions
you've never felt
never expected to feel 
(or wanted to feel)
I want you to walk away from 
the theatre
weeping
your face red and puffy
so embarassed to look the way you do
that you run to your car
before anyone can see
the tears
and then I've done my 
job
so that's why I act
because I want to affect
(and infect)
you
and because I never
under any circumstances
want you to find out
who I
really
am


there she stands
monument to my inabilities
easily can I sense the piano's
(my piano's)
red hot anger
why don't you tinkle these ivories
daddio?
shining and inviting
but all week they stand untouched
contemptuous
I WOULD play and play and play
play till these fingers bled
till white bone poked through broken skin
I want to make my piano 
tell its million tales
in words of jazz
(a language loved by beats
and my piano)
the melodies would burst forth
sometimes TWANG
and my piano would have to be tuned
every week
every day
by a white-haired man in smokegrey coveralls
with a bristle-brush beard
a pot-belly
and a toolbox with complementary tuning fork
my music would spill into these congested streets
flood them
wash away all the people
that go along everyday doing their
everyday people-like tasks
only the bums/beats would be left
those dirty enlightened beings who beg on street corners
they'd float
while all the others would be drowned
but I don't have the time and 
the patience
it takes to be a 
swinging blues musician
and my fingertips are too delicate (?)
so when I walk out the door
and see my piano
alone in the darkness
I try to promise myself I'll practice
all day, every day
make my sordid dreamlike
musicdreams
come true
but its not to be


if you ever really want to drive me 
insane
(more insane than I already am)
you want to make me hate you 
(but I cant
cuz I'm cowering in a corner
I'm mad)
just release your spiders, your moths,
your cockroaches
any and all bugs
I'm arthrophobic and so
thats how you make me weak
(or you could simply tell me to shut up
say I'm stupid)


twenty-four story walkup
(that number makes me nauseated)
and the view is of
the buildings opposite, dumpsters, bums, and disease
on every corner there's a beggar
rags for "enameled skin"
fastfood paper cup
couldyasparesomechangemista
and I'm one of those
no different
face streaked with "blood, sweat, and tears"
spend that change on 
(weed, booze)
cheap-ass pens and sketchbooks/journals
all of us have/had our ambitions
he holds a sickly/sickening kitten 
in his lap
his cup is empty
as are their stomachs
but their minds buzz/teem w/ideas
thoughts
songs
we see the world as it is and always will be
we are the true realists of the universe
we have no delusions
only our cardboard signs 
our fastfood paper cups 
our sighs


not trying to be conventional
not trying to be unconventional
just trying to be myself
in a ravenous world
where everyone's caught up
in the image


Attention to all human beings:
this is a simple memo
(poem)
I've sent out among the masses
because I'd simply like
some simple questions
answered
1.  why do you think you must keep tabs on MY life?
is existence not enough for you
gotta put more unnecessary burden
on yourself
cuz
(contrary to excruciatingly popular belief)
I am mature enough to decide
FOR MYSELF
what is wrong and right
(on the ball...most of the Time)
shut up your fucking mouth
dont tell me I've done wrong
EVER
you dont know all the facts or
me
2.  why do you continue to opress me?
why do you (society) keep me from
feeling my feelings
thinking my thoughts
believing my beliefs
and speaking my mind
so what if I'm gay
(ain't even gonna grace that with a response)
let me be who I want to be 
and not who you think I should be
i know you just want to keep me in line
(go fuck yourself)
3.  why are you so ignorant?
you hate
you let skin and sexuality and origin and religion
get in your way
(why can't you be more like me)
dont you know whats in the mind 
(the heart)
(the soul)
is what counts
you make me want to murder myself
but I wont
(I know it would just make you happy)
4.  why do you look down on me because I'm young?
and why have you created these lines based on age?
I'm more intelligent than your 
Klu Klux Klan members
(they can't even spell "clan" correctly; 
what does that say to you?)
and you bigots
and your everyday people who think
its okay
to sit around like the assholes they are
and curse and damn
those who are different
those they don't understand
(this ones for you, cousins)
how dare you
but the answers you would give
mean nothing to me
they are mere prattle
I'm sorry I have to live in this world
endure this shit
but I've got no choice
youve taken that away from me
along with my pride
my self-worth
(and you wonder why
I'll never have
children)


i can't get up cuz im busy
listening to my music 
that's too loud
thinking my thoughts
that are too loud
and men are fuckers
that fill my head and
control my life
like the alternatives
and the drugs, and the religions
and the music 
and thoughts
that are too loud
turn it down
turn off your brain
you're too annoying
too angry
don't trouble me 
think happy thoughts
you fucker
why can't you be more like anyone
who isn't you
why are you mad
but life is hard 
and it confuses me
and makes me question the assholes
who try to tell me what's right
how i should act
how i should live my worthless life
im a thinker and a dreamer
and i just can't settle for
this shit.


"God it's fucking hot in this damn car!"
so I roll down the window
and rest both my feet on the sideview mirror
The cool refreshing wind blows over my brown toes,
pulls on the invisible hiars on my brown toes
I look to my left and see you there at the wheel
eyes forward on the road
I smile and lift form my seat
for a moment
and kiss you on the cheek
Then I sit back down
don't bother to buckle my fucking seat belt
I purposely avoid looking at you
I can feel your gaze
and it makes me smile
my feet still out the window, 
I reach over and flip on the radio
and the music fills this dusty,
worthless van
we may be truckin' through the desert,
but the shade of these barren hills
the road has cut through
makes the air outside our windows
cooler than inside
I swing my arm around your shoulders
and eventually I sit behind you and dig 
my fingers into your extremely sore neck
the sun throws its arms around me
as I rest
and my skin is warm
I'm snuggled against my clean pillow 
I pretend to sleep
and can still feel your fingers in my hair
endless roadtrip.


we drive into the country club
with its estates
in our dirty, blue astrovan
mom laughs feigningly
at a pointless joke told on 
the annoying radio
and dad jokes as he pulls
both hands off the wheel
for a few seconds
and i grimace at their 
cliche
and then the cop car brushes past
siren blarring, red and blue
flashing
just got a call from the base, 
i think
domestic problems down on
Calle Vaqueros
but i'm sure it's not just
a difference of opinion
a female form lying
in a pool of crimson,
freezing
killed by a boozed up, would-be
husband
who still sits on 
the couch
a beer in hand
mom says if you cook the
tri-tip tomorrow, 
i'll do everything else;
it's father's day


clanking of forks and knives and spoons
against porecalain plates
and ivory teeth rattling on
clear, tall glasses
crumpled and crumbled in a grasp
that won't let go
flecks of Italian sauce
smudges of Caesar salad dressing
blue words
feelings on an old, used napkin
alone in a cafe that screams with life
amidst the gabbing and the laughter
the sorrowful words dance on 
the shredded remnants of 
a shaggy napkin.


I can hear the shit that's going down next door
through these sickeningly thin walls
that were built by some fool
on the orders of some cheap bastard
who wanted to save a few bucks
I hear her wails
I don't even know her name
but I can see that fat, putrid man
drag her across the filth ridden floor
by her hair
and the baby screams
bitten by a red-eyed rat
and it scurries away
baby sucks his thumb and wonders
why mommy's being so loud
then a bottle breaks with a crash I grimace
and then, over the sound of the basketball game he's 
watching on TV,
I swear I can just make out
the snap of a beer can being popped open
and a slow but significant trickle
of blood onto a green shag carpet
a coakroach crawls up her leg and 
I shudder


The carcass doesn't waver
except for the 
in and out
of breath
The room doesn't make a 
sound
but I am here w/my dog
who lies,
his glass eyes quivering in his brain
It's me and him
and my thoughts and
his doggy dreams
that I never know
He doesn't tell me
But I see his sickly paw spasm.


Kerouac
come with me to
Mexico City
we'll drive across the country
with the top down
and our short hair
flying in the breeze
and I'll lean over
all the time
and honk the horn
(for hours)
but never from the
driver's seat
because a car's got too much 
power
and I'm afraid I'd kill us both
we can blast the music on our
broken radio
and fill the desert with
jazz and blues
(too bad they don't play
sitar
on the radio)
we'll cross the border
in style
(the border patrol won't bother
pulling over
(for inspection)
2 white, good lookin' Americans
like us)
and then cruise
to the heart
of this
familiar
Mexico country
straight into our city
and we'll lounge by the pool
(or you'll throw me in 
against my will)
we'll lay in the sun
notebooks in our laps
pens in our hands
you'll write your
songs your choruses
(that never end
even after you hit #500)
and I'll write poems
about your face
bronze
as the sun goes down
on Mexico City
we'll spend ten thousand years
meeting Burroughs and his wife
poetry readings 
with Pablo Neruda 
(from Chile)
and when we finally come 
home
(to our San Francisco City)
they'll have so much to write in our books
Lawrence will
(the one who sits at home
giving us a voice
allowing the nation
to hear our minds
(our poetry))
we'll finally return
to where we belong
rest in City Lights
in the loving arms of
Ginsberg, Corso, McClure, and Cassidy
but for now
escape with me
Kerouac
to Mexico City
all alone in the 
warmth and yellow
that even a 
grey-lover
(like me)
needs
sometimes


i've tried numerous times to say
to you
(all of you)
(how many are there
these years have flown by
and I've lost my count
help me find the number
and the people
they've floated
we all float down here
into oblivion and 
I've lost sight
but I love them all
the lost souls that 
I don't remember
and I just say
don't forget me)
what a coincidence that we've found each other
and that we're
all the same
that we love and dream
and sing
I bow down 
because it is such a great privilege to 
have you all at my side
to be here or there and know
that you are not far away
lurking behind dark corners
ready to jump to my aid
this is for you
(which one of you
I no longer know
as the years fly by
the subject will change
but I will always
think
(remember?)
those of the past
those who were you 
in there day
but have been replaced by you
(do I not make sense?  
but you will understand
because you
are you
whoever you are)
these days have been days of
insecurity 
and loneliness
and sorrow 
(days spent in tears
the new spring fashion)
and i wonder if I need you 
or anyone
crawl into my hole and there I would live
a peaceful life
without this sadness
that has caused me so much pain
when I am one 
(one)
who should be enjoying what life I have
(and the sadness is created by you
 in you it thrives
so to flee from you and all
would mean to leave all this sorrow behind
(the sorrow kills me
makes me 
less than myself
someone I no longer recognize
help me to find my home
my place of origin)
myself)
isn't it right to leave
is it not a solution
(these thought swirl in my dropping, tired brain
I wonder and think
and nothing is changed)
but I realize 
through all my ponderings
that I 
could
not 
live
without you by my side
life would be a pointless wandering without you to share it with
you who I read my poems to
you who I want in my life
(but will you not let me in
when I pound at your door
and scream for acceptance
do I matter
I'm not a you of yours)
you who with I discuss things others wouldn't completely 
understand
(don't think this means you
because it might not)
and all the yous to come
you who means so much
but I sometimes believe
you don't understand
me
or what I'm trying to say
and I feel I neglect you
some of the time
because sometimes I don't care
or is it that I get so frustrated
with you
that you make me not care
or do I care so immensely that 
I disgust myself
and I need to fly away from my
dependencies
those that mean so much
because through all this I want to remain
an individual
me 
(who I no longer know
who I can no longer define)
and so many say 
there's no need to be defined
but i need to know 
who I am
and to look at your face
(your million faces
like some story book monster)
I find the answer
to my past
and 
who I am
I am you
and you are the fabric that is me
that makes me who I am
(but this all
metaphoric
none of what I say is literal
(is any of it true
or do I just say all this
to sound cryptic
to be a poet)
I wouldn't expect you to know the answer
I wouldn't expect you to understand
but perhaps you do
perhaps I ramble
and you know exactly 
what I am
trying
to say


it's too midday
(all too "midday")
to be strolling along these battered streets
way too midday
too bright and sunny and happy
I want to smell the seasalt
(I want that pungent odor to invade
my lungs
and make me choke)
I want grey skies 
heavy with thick gooey
revitalizing rain
I want the ability to snuggle up inside
my fuzzy black inviting sweatshirt
lay in the dew covered, shiningly green
and healthy grass
on Pier 39
with ten thousand blankets over me
and I'll read and read and 
no will ever tell me to
put the book away(!)
and my broken back would never ache
to walk (with no urgency at all)
down the tilted sidewalks
with chapped hands in my pockets
maybe a tall, dark, and intelligent
cat's arm around my waist
and duck into City Lights
and then sit in that dark corner
under that clouded window and
read the poetry
of all the beats (and thinkers)
(I am a beat)
and then climb down the creaking
incriminating wooden staircase
and into that basement
poorly lit
and bask in the buddhism and communism
I want to light dark blue candles of
power
and lay on my cheap and wasted
bed
and read some more
read out loud adn fill my room
(dreaming, salty, San Francisco room)
with magical, mysterious, enigmatic
words!
I need rain, I need gloom, I need
darkness
(because its all too midday)
and all this sunshine makes me squint
gives me a headache
(gives me head? oh no)
and makes me sleepy
this midday makes all the dreams
I've had
float in to the midday bright blue sky
imaginations dwindle
hearts sink
I want to wait at a grafittied bus stop
(the art section, classifieds in my lap)
and let the rain shower down in sheets
and be able  to dance and jump
and dive into the puddles scattered
along slickblack streets
get all my clothes sopping wet
(waterproof paperback)
North Beack
watch an old chinese man perform
tai-chi
as I sip a cap
to warm my bones
see my breath mark the
chill, frozen air
I want to ride the trolley up to Union Square
walk past all the umbrellas 
cringe at the amount of rich people
that crowd the streets 
(disgusting fur coats)
then smile
and run over to pester the 
living statues
but it's too midday
it's all too midday
and midday's not for me
who's only happy
when I'm in a wintery, overcast
rainy day
San Francisco City


Magical Mass Transit:
back seat
of the long dreary bus
under a grey
overcast sky
too early morning
for a lazy homebody like me
always asking
why
I didn't just stay
in bed
why venture out
into a world that's not crazy enough
rickety bus
catch a nap
nestled in the back seat
worthless sandles kicked onto the floor
jacket covering my cold body
like a blanket
and then the 
welcome rain
washes down
I don't know where I'm going
I'm not sure I care
(though maybe
sometimes I do)
I'll go where this bus leads
across states
countries
oceans
universes
and never go home
(where is my home?
I've forgotten my way 
my past
couldn't find my home
even if my get-away bus
dropped me off at the door)
slink down in this seat of mine
and never hear
"sit up"
the driver doesn't want to see
a bum like myself
he convinces himself that I'm not there
no good-for-nothing vagabond
will be allowed the great priveledge
of riding his bus
but I've snuck on
and he was blind to me
and when I wake up 
and hop into the aisle
to shout out
beat poetry
(the poetry of my people)
to my felow mass-transit riders
his only protest is
"keep it down, ya bum"
but I continue
I'll be here for a long time
and he knows it
(they all do
becuz I'm a traveler
a hobo)
but I'll crawl back into my back seat
keep to "myself"
and let this magical, homely bus
take me
away


"get a job"
blackhearted words of the 
goodluck devil
rot my spongy brain
all the constraints
"you must conform
(put on your shoes,
take off those nonsense glasses)
get a job!"
but I'll never work for "Them"
I must be free,
barefoot,
and insane
I will not "get a job"
I will not conform
you can continue to do your hardest
to convince me otherwise
(I will give you the choice,
but I ask the same)
but I will not change
fuck you
your "get a job!"


don't know up from down
or sideways from backwards
I've lost my way
and so I've gone crazy
blame me on this
disorientation


oh how 
"people"
can change
when 
"people"
are given
"authority"


beware
of the newcoming genocide
(homecoming genocide)
many will die
the next plague to sweep our world
(there's a plague that occurs
at some point in every century
keeping tabs on
the population
making sure the numbers
don't get out of hand)
you don't know it's on its way
no one nose
they'll be swallowed up 
and they won't have time
to wonder why
the most horrible death one can die
(Ginsberg thought that would be
death by
radiation fallout)
(perhaps Chinese water torture?)
these deaths are nothing 
compared to the infinite, grueling
gruesome death
that will come with this
the newcoming plague
(the fast coming plague)
more torturous
more ravenous
more longlasting and hellish 
than any death 
any could imagine
a selective plague
(tell the future generations;
teach them so that the may
live)
many will die
but you can save yourself
save those you love
a simple way to escape
the creative death
that is inevitable otherwise
I will now divulge the secret
(the secret no longer a secret)
the secret that will spare your life
those who will die
those who will be brushed from
the face of the earth 
by a muscular and unsympathetic hand
are those millions who try to teell me
what I should do
those who think I don't have the intelligence to know
right from wrong
those who think they have the right
to think they're better than me
those who expect me to do
what they think I shouldn't do
those who shush me
tell me to shut up
those who say
we are going to loose the glasses, aren't we
and
you're going to have to tuck in your shirt
those who make sure I'm being good
before they stop
and ask if they're being the same
those who insist on living my life
before they live their own
those who are ignorant
but continue to think they're smarter
than me
the newcoming genoicde 
(the strong, invincible genocide)
perhaps you should change your ways
but for some it's too late
they're already dead
they've caught the plague
they'll spread the plague
and they'll die
because I've set the title upon their
hypocritical
arrogant
putrescent shoulders
the title of death
I am the judge
I am the Grim Reaper
I am Death
you and I are the only
who can save your life
Fear the Judgement Day
(the soon coming Judgement Day)


the weather's turned cold
grey skies
(I say "grey" 
as opposed to 
"gray"
or "pink")
sun overpowered by those
lifeless clouds
rain pours down
(I was forced to stand in that 
pouring rain;
but then I came home
warmed my broken feel
by the "fire"
plaid wool blanket
that scratched at my bare shoulders
but kept them warm)
I sleep with
the window
open
four blankets piled on top
(you by my side)
and let that
cold and darkness
spill into my
(would-be) cozy bedroom
because I like to snuggle
into you


well
son of a bitch
ain't that amazing
fucking hell
get back in your cell


still just a number:
the barcode
plastered on my arm
thse numbers
in binary code
scratched eerily underneath
the number They've assigned me
can't scrub it off
no matter how hard you try
can't erase the files
the number
They'll know if you burn it off
the barcode
They'll know if you chop off your arm 
to remove
the barcode
To Them I am a number
not a human being
not a life form
0's and 1's arranged in a seemingly spasmodic pattern
nothing more
I've chopped off all my limbs
but still
I can't make Them see me
for who I am


a letter to corso:
I call myeself a beat
(and I don't consider this slander)
I dream of a life on your rebel arm
sitting around a room with you
and Ginsberg 
and kerouac
and cheating Cassidy
reading poetry
writing poetry
praising buddha in our spare time
having dirty orgies in abandoned lots
roaming new york city
(taxi cabs
coffee shops
central park)
or driving cross country to 
San Francisco
with the top down
the hang out at City Lights
with Ferlinghetti 
and McClure
poetry readings in the back room
(and I feel like 
one of the boys)
we shout
and dance
and dream
ride a city bus all the way to 
Haight and Asbury
sit on the curb
beg for change
(the people who pass by 
think we're bums
and maybe we are)
and then kneel in front of the
big stone Buddha
in Golden Gate Park
and praise this enlightened one
but this morning
dear corso
I realized something
(and it came as a deadly shock to me)
and I wondered
could I have been a beat
because...
I don't do drugs
(I am into that scene 
but not really a part of it)
I don't do drugs
(and in soem cases this makes me pathetic
an outcast)
and I'm against mind altering substances
would you accept me
into your lives
without this 
drug factor
and would I be able to survive
a constant cloud of smoke
wafting in the air
and your pupils fully dilated
I wish I could ask you
why you think this necessary
why you refuse to be clean
and
am I a beat, Corso, am I a beat?


I want
routine kisses
someone I can just walk up to and
kiss
anytime of the day or night
I want to feel a scratchy cheek pressed against me own
I want peppered kisses
on my eyelids
and the area just below where
nose and cheek meet 
I want hands to kiss
noses to kiss
chins to kiss
collar bones to kiss
I want 
daily round the clock kisses
(any volunteers)


mother earth
my battered mother earth
(victim of spousal abuse:
you are married to your children 
(incest)
your people)
and I feel your acid tears
rain down on my face
puddles of these tears flood
my sidewalks
and you and I are both
drowning
I choke on pollution 
your skies turn grey
we murder you
we rape you
(rob you of
(among other things)
virginity
innocence)
and then we throw your
broken body
into a sludge gutter
and people whisper on dirty street corners
"what ever happened to
old mother earth"
I reply 
she's died, mourn our mother
we have killed her
but they are blind
they've forgotten the
genocide of the mother
the slaughter of our earth
animals are slipping into
black oblivion
(extinction)
disappearing off the face of this
desolate dead earth
and we're so completely disconnected
(without symbiotic relationships
with any other creature
on the face
we've so thoroughly lost our
beginnings
that we can pretend
we're unaffected
that this isn't really happening
babies choke on the
black sky
(river of smoke pour from the
infinite smokestacks
that blanket the earth)
exhaust seeps into our lungs daily
and it seems
we've grown accustomed
to it all
we cut down the forests 
zap all the green from the landscape
and leave only 
desert
brown
shopping malls
emptiness
in its place
songwriters cry
where have all the flowers gone
and none of us have an answer
we commit suicide by starting our wars 
broken corpses
clutter crumbling streets
and gunshots are heard in our
bomb shelters
around the clock
and it seems
I am the only one who mourns
the passing of the mother
we're all too obsessed with
image
to realize 
that it's not long before 
we'll be hopping into that 
grave
right alongside
her
(my mother
our battered beaten 
hopeless world)


get this 
wet
pimply
fleshy
pink
hard 
ugly
thing
out of my fucking face
if you think i'm the least bit interested
in having 
that thing
thrusted into
this thing
then you must have some kind of 
mental retardation
where do you get off thinking
I want to spend my time
sucking
and blowing
and moaning
and faking it
YOU'RE the fucking cunt


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